there is no bravery on these broken wings
by Julia Claire
Summary: -He has always come back, so you shouldn't be the last one to fall asleep, the last one to stare at the ceiling and pray that the shadows there don't turn into demons.- EzraAria. Set after 2x25.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Pretty Little Liars.**

there is no bravery on these broken wings

The four of you sleep on the floor of Spencer's room that night, your heads together, so that the you can all clutch each others' hands. Mona – A – is gone, off the physical and proverbial cliff, and Maya is dead.

Hanna stares and Emily cries and Spencer's breathing hasn't returned to normal since she staggered out of the passenger seat of that car. This day has ripped the skin off their knuckles, torn the last ragged hope from their hearts, and scared them to the bone. Even Dr. Sullivan, even Toby, can't make it all right again.

But for you, you, you, this day has only brought deliverance because A is gone and Ezra is back and your parents, hours earlier, enveloped you in a hug, crying, and your father looked like he might do anything, not to lose you again. You don't smile and you don't celebrate – you stroke your friends' hair and hold their hands and console, but inside, you know that you have been saved, that maybe you always were saved, that maybe it was always inevitable, that Ezra would come back again. He has always come back, after all.

Hadn't he whispered it, when he entered the room in a black mask that obscured his eyes and blurred his features? "No matter how hard I try to stay away," he'd said, he'd promised, before kissing you, so that your lips tingled and you might have flown, for how light you felt.

We are inevitable, he seemed to confide, in that kiss, that dance, and you, you, you have been saved because he came back, like he has always come back, so you shouldn't be the last one to fall asleep, the last one to stare at the ceiling and pray that the shadows there don't turn into demons.

:

You – you and him, Ezra and Aria – have both read enough books to know that in the end, this is just a story, of a pretty young girl and a handsome young man, and people that do not understand. This is just a story, of a girl's father who throws rocks from a glass house, who does everything in his power to break them apart and can't, can't.

This is just a story, of a man who doesn't leave and a girl who never stops waiting.

This is just a story, like _Romeo and Juliet_ or _Wuthering Heights_ or _The Scarlet Letter_, and you have both read enough books to know that it could all end in tragedy or it could never end at all.

:

He loves you. You know that, from the way he finds you on the stairs, by the window, on that day of Alison's funeral, from the way he doesn't let you walk away. You know that, from the way he stands there and takes losing his job, takes your brother's punch, takes your father's stupid, hypocritical anger, from the way he takes it all and always comes back.

His dark eyes are sometimes cloudy, but he always smiles for you.

:

You try and close your eyes, but all you can see is Mike, standing in the bathroom that night, the shaving cream on his soft, round face, your little brother, trying so hard to be older, trying so hard to be a man.

"If your relationship is so much trouble, why not just let it go?"

The words echo in your mind, over and over; you see his mouth curl, see him struggling to understand, but he is so young, so young.

And you, you are the older sister, sophisticated, mature, wise in all the ways of the world, so you could stand there and answer without hesitating – "When you love someone, it's worth fighting for."

You said it with conviction and strength, like you really were old, like you really did know.

:

"Which one of you girls is the best at hiding something from someone who's close to you?"

Aria. Aria. Aria.

"Thanks, guys," you said, like it didn't hurt, like it wasn't true. How many lies have you told, to them, to your parents, to yourself?

You tell Ezra that the two of you can handle it, that you can handle it. You dress up and use big words and read sophisticated literature and you pretend every day that you are brave and you can do this.

"You're little, but you're big," Spencer said, in that creepy old place motel, on that dark, dark night.

You smile and don't reply; it's just another lie.

:

Spencer never saw you standing on the side of the mat, arms crossed, hunched, as Holden fought, his heart beating, beating, faster, faster... You stood there immobile, not for Holden's secret, but for yours, and if he had died, you would have still stood there, silent, and not told, even beside his grave.

Spencer never saw you in your bedroom, turned away from your mother, not even facing her, angry threats spilling from your mouth so you could get what you want. She never saw you turn away from your mother in her classroom, stuttering, the world _ashamed_ still ringing in your ears (you never apologized).

She never saw saw you tell your father that you were not his little girl anymore (lies, lies, lies), never heard the glass shatter as the rock hit with a thud, as both his glass house and yours collapsed around your feet and still neither of you conceded defeat.

Spencer never saw you standing there and letting Ezra stay, letting him come back again and again and again, and not ever telling him the truth, not ever telling him how broken you are, how broken it all is.

:

You had a glass bird, once, when you were little, but you had a horrible habit of carrying it around the house and dropping it on the hardwood floors, so that little bits of it fell apart and had to be glued back together, until your mother held it in her hands one day and said you could hardly tell what it was any more, it was so broken. She threw it out into the garbage can, but you fished it out and hid it under one one of your floorboards.

It was still there, when you got back from Iceland and found it, dusty and ugly and broken, ruined not just from being shattered, but for being kept, hidden, untouched, for not being let go.

:

In the end, you fall asleep somewhere between the shattering glass and Mike's question and Ezra's kisses and your lies, but it's a restless, troubled sleep, and when you open your eyes, there are still shadows on the ceiling.

:

"I love you," you'll tell Ezra that next night, your hands wound together, his face an inch from yours, with a smile on your face and confidence in your eyes, like you are brave, like you are old and wise and certain, like you know for sure what love is.


End file.
